


Beast of Burden

by YellowBlue (orphan_account)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption II
Genre: Abigail and John will not stay a couple, Dutch tries his best to be a good Dad, F/M, Hosea is the better Dad, Human Trafficking, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slavery, Slow Burn, Spoilers for chapter 4-6, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Violence, all John/Abigail shippers please look away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-12-30 12:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18315263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/YellowBlue
Summary: Dutch knew from the very start that getting Jack back from Angelo Bronte wouldn't come for free. He just hadn't expected that the price would be that high."I'm willing to exchange the boy for Mr. Marston. It is simple as that.""Why? Want to put me into one of those fancy bathrobes that you're wearing?""Oh no, nothing like that. I intend to sell you."





	1. Chapter 1

 

They had walked straight into the lion's den and the lion had been bigger and and more savage than they had thought. It had been a mistake.

 

"So, you walk into my city, stinking of shit and looking like this and you come into my house before you have a bath and you tell me how to act?" Bronte addressed the three men that were standing in the middle of his parlor, unimpressed by the threat he had just heard.

 

Dutch saw in Angelo Bronte's eyes that he had made a mistake. He had underestimated the Italian, he had thought that the man was nothing but a pompous bastard with a funny hat and a strange accent. Somebody that would run away with his tail between his legs as soon as he heard the the slightest growl. He had been wrong. Bronte was dangerous. Very dangerous.

 

"You ask me to show compassion? Have I not shown you almost infinite compassion already by simply allowing you to breath in my presence?" With narrowed eyes the Bronte looked at the three outlaws like they were nothing but a speck of dirt on his polished shoes. His demeanor made it clear what he thought of them. They were less than nothing and his patience was running thin.

 

"Indeed you have," Dutch replied in a calm voice, raising his hands again and hoping that the gesture of submission was not lost to the man in front of him and the other men that were still pointing their guns in their direction. He needed to think fast, change tactics, put them in a position were they weren't seen as a threat, but as suppliants, humbly asking instead of demanding.

 

"Now, we are simple country folk. All we have is each other." Dutch pointed between him and Bronte as he spoke, sitting slowly down on the settee opposite of him and hoping to see just a flicker of sympathy in the face of the other man. There was nothing but cold indifference in the eyes of the other man. "And you have gone and you have took his son over some dispute with some inbred ex-slavers. It ain't got nothing to do with anyone of us." The role of the innocent victim didn't suit them, Dutch was fully aware of that, but his words also made it clear that this was deeply personal and a family matter. If what he had heard was true family was something of significance and importance for Italians. He could only hope that Bronte shared the sentiment of his fellow countrymen.

 

John still looked nervous and on edge with his hand on his revolver, watching the armed men that were with them in the small room. The calm and almost amiable way Dutch handled the situation was the the only thing that held him back at that moment. Killing this vile son of a bitch was what he really wanted to do as he watched him laugh and say something in Italian, but he needed to be patient. They had a chance to get Jack back. That was all that mattered.

 

The dark haired outlaw shared a confused and surprised look with Arthur when Bronte suddenly changed his attitude towards them completely and offered them drinks with a wide smile that was too much teeth and lacked any kindness and warmth. Bronte was right when he said that Dutch had a way with words, he was a master of lies and twisted truths and it seemed that it had worked this time as well. At least it had kept them alive so far. John could only hope that it would also get them Jack back.

 

Both John and Arthur watched the exchange between the two older man silently. They felt like bystanders to something that could easily end in a massacre or in a mutually beneficial partnership. The outcome of this negotiation depended on Dutch's skills, even though it was painfully obvious that the older man was also just playing along by now and that he was following the rules the Italian had given them.

 

Cold, calculating eyes watched the three outlaws and Dutch didn't see any chance to postpone the inevitable any longer. They were no longer in a position to make any demands – they had never been in this position, Dutch reminded himself – and they had no other chance than to put their cards on the table and to put an end to this charade of well meant generosity and hospitality.

 

“So, can my friend have his son?” Even before Dutch had finished his question he knew that this was the opening Bronte had been waiting for and the outlaw could already feel the claws that this despicable man was slowly digging into their sides.

 

“Of course, of course.” Bronte's agreed, like it had never been a matter of discussion to release Jack. He took one of the small glasses that were filled with some sweet liquor before looking back at Dutch, his gaze lingering on John only for a second. “But … should I be out of pocket over a misunderstanding? Of course I know you would not want that.”

 

“No,” Dutch agreed reluctantly, waiting for the inevitable bomb to drop. He knew that Bronte was not willing to give Jack back without demanding something in return and the price they would need to pay would be a big one. This man thrived on having others under his control and on being able to make them do whatever he wanted them to do.

 

“No, no, no, no how about this?” Bronte's voice had a bright and amicable tone to it that was as fake as the man's smile. “ A transaction. Mr. … I'm sorry, I missed his name.” Bronte pointed at John as he spoke.

 

“Marston,” Dutch answered, his reluctantly only increasing. He didn't like where this was going. This was getting more than just personal now. If it wouldn't have been for the sake of rescuing Jack he would have left the place with Arthur and John as soon as Bronte had invited them to sit and have a drink with him.

 

"I'm offering an exchange." He took a sip from the small glass that he was still holding in his hand. “I'm willing to exchange the boy for Mr. Marston. It is simple as that.”

 

Before Dutch was able to reply John had already opened his mouth: "Why? Want to put me into one of those fancy bathrobes that you're wearing?" He regretted his words immediately when he saw the reaction of the crime lord. Bronte looked like he had expected John to react like this and playing his role like he was intended to, like a obedient little marionette.

 

"Oh no, nothing like that. I intend to sell you,” Bronte replied with a cruel delight in his eyes as he let his gaze linger on the young outlaw.

 

For a moment nobody spoke. Bronte was basking in this moment, watching as the dreadful realization of what he had just proposed dawned on the three men that were sitting in front of him. He licked his lips. It was almost like he expected to taste the shock and unease he had kindled in them.

 

“There are of course always other options.” He continued to speak and Dutch was sure that he didn't even want to consider any other options proposed by this man. “The business opportunities in Saint Denis are vast and a boy this young will surely be a valued asset anywhere in this world.” The threat to ship Jack to another country hang heavy in the air. Bronte knew just too well that they wouldn't and couldn't agree to this.

 

"If the boy is worth so much to you," Dutch said, still somehow remaining humble and polite as he spoke even though he desperately wanted to punch him and wipe that obnoxious smirk off his face. “Maybe we can find something of equal worth f--” He wasn't able to finish his sentence.

 

"The boy is of absolutely no worth to me," Bronte interrupted him, the false smile vanishing from his face, being replaced by a biting sneer. "I have a city full of children just waiting for an order from me and begging to do some dirty work. One snot nosed little brat more or less doesn't make any difference to me."

 

Neither Dutch nor John or Arthur doubted his words. Bronte had made it very clear that the only life that mattered to him was his own. It was neither their money nor any kind of business relationship or anything else he was interested in. He wanted to see Dutch and his gang stumble and maybe even fall. This was nothing but a sick game of power to him.

 

It was Arthur who lost his temper first. “This is ridiculous!” He roared as he got up from the settee, not even trying to keep his anger in check. With an audible growl in his voice he addressed Dutch: “C'mon, Dutch, why are we still here?” There was no way he would listen to this bullshit any longer.

 

Dutch hushed him with a simple gesture. They couldn't just refuse Bronte's proposal. Even though he wanted to, they would risk losing Jack and suffering the wrath of one of the most powerful men this side of the country the moment they walked out of the door. He couldn't risk that.

 

“And with selling him you mean as workforce?” Dutch asked, ignoring the furious look Arthur send his way. He needed to try to get any kind of leverage that he could use Jack back and keep his gang safe.

 

“Do you really think I care who will buy him in the end?” With an amused smile the crime lord leaned back and rested his arms on the back rest of the settee. “I'm interested in the possibility to offer the buyers of Saint Denis something special.”

 

"He's not a slave! Look at him! Everybody will know that he's no slave!" Arthur was shouting by now. This was beyond any logical reason. He couldn't believe that they even had this discussion. Several guns were pointed into his direction and he couldn't care less. This was John's life Dutch and the Italian were discussing, not some crate with trinkets or weapons.

 

"Your man really seems to be an imbecile, Mr. van der Linde.” The mocking tone in Bronte's voice was not to miss when he spoke. He watched Dutch for a moment before he turned towards Arthur, his lips suddenly twisted into an ugly snarl. “Do you really think I intend to sell him on the city market? Sit down and shut up, you brainless monkey.”

 

There were not many things that surprised Dutch van der Linde anymore, but a man proposing to sell another free man into slavery in exchange for an innocent kid just because he could was something even he found shocking. He replayed the words that Bronte had said in his mind, but there wasn't anything that he could use as bargaining chip for further negotiations.

 

"Mr Bronte, I ... don't doubt your expertise in that matter and you do know the marked better than we do, but what makes you think somebody would risk buying a criminal and a degenerate like him?" Dutch knew he was grasping at straws now, trying to convince Bronte that an exchange would not be worth it, desperate to get John out of the line of fire.

 

"He is white. This makes him special," Bronte replied, his mouth slowly twisting into this sharkish smile that made Arthur's skin crawl. "Workers from the Caribbean Islands, Africans, Cubans, all common standard. You can also get whores in every size and color, but a white male slave who is willing to obey his master's every wish not because he wants to, but because he must." There was a pause and Bronte looked at John, the predatory grin becoming even more sinister. "Now this is something special."

 

Bronte took another sip from the small glass in his hand, emptying it and putting it one the small coffee table in front of him before he continued to speak: "A couple of decades ago he would have been nothing special with too many Irish prisoners and workers in the country. But now he might actually fetch a nice price."

 

"What makes you think that I will agree to let you sell one of my men?" Dutch asked with a guarded look on his face. Even though he tried to stay civil and respectful towards the other man he could feel his lips curl into a semblance of a smile that looked more like a snarl. He couldn't fully suppress the hate for the man that was sitting in front of him, not when Bronte had just threatened so many things he held dear.

 

"The fact that you have no choice in that matter.” Bronte replied offhandedly. "This is not your decision, Mr. van der Linde, this is his.” He gestured towards the young outlaw while he spoke. “We live in a free country, don't we? Every man decides his own fate. It's time that Mr. Marston decides his.”

 

Dutch could feel his teeth grinding together and he had to close his eyes for a second, unable to keep looking at the Italian. “We … need to think about it.” There was an unusual hollowness in his voice. He was one step away from making a deal with the devil and there was absolutely nothing he could do about this in that moment. There was no way he could know what would happen after they agree to this and he could only play for time now.

 

“You can return tomorrow afternoon. Be on time, I'm not known to be a patient man.” With a small nod Bronte ordered his men to make sure that the three outlaws left his property, reclining back on the small sofa and picking up the book he had set aside when Dutch and the other two men had arrived at his home.

 

If it wouldn't have been for Arthur's hands that grabbed his jacked and pulled him up from the small sofa John would have remained seated there. His brain was still trying to catch up with what had happened during the last ten minutes in Angelo Bronte's house. He felt absolutely gobsmacked by what he had just heard and the only thing that kept him grounded was the heavy, warm hand on his shoulder and Arthur's deep, rough voice telling him to get on his horse so that they could ride back to camp and find a solution for all this.

 

The three men rode in silence. The swamps around Saint Denis was filled with eerie noises and strange lights even at night and it was like the surrounding was echoing the jumble of thoughts and emotions inside them. Only when Old Boy nickered nervously, startled by a snake that slithered past them, John snapped out of his dazed state and realized that they were already close to Shady Belle. The lights of the campfires and oil lamps shining warm and inviting and John couldn't help the painful and sorrowful feeling that was raising in his chest. It was like he was seeing his home for the very last time. He patted Old Boy after he dismounted from him, regretting that he didn't even have a lump of sugar with him that he could feed his faithful companion and feeling a pang in his heart when he thought about the possibility that this might be the last time he would be able to spend some time with his horse.

 

“We can raid his house tonight, shot everything that moves,” Arthur eventually said, breaking the silence. “That bastard included.” The truth was he would have loved to shoot Bronte then and there just for daring to suggest he had the right to rule over another man's future and life just like this. That it was John he intended to sell – and Arthur couldn't even think the word without gripping his reigns harder – made this furious and wrathful feeling inside him even harder to control.

 

“He expects exactly that. We would doubtlessly all die if we try something like this now.” Dutch rubbed a hand over his face, the headache he had felt coming since they had left Saint Denis was now pounding behind his eyes and in his temples. It wasn't even worth discussion this option. “Not to mentioned Jack. If he's somewhere in the house nobody can guarantee for his safety.”

 

“So what do you reckon we do, Dutch? Is John supposed to say yes?” Arthur could feel his temper rising again. Bronte's words were still echoing in his mind and he couldn't stand the fact that Dutch had agreed to think about this proposal. They were not thinking about it! They were not going to give John up like this!

 

“I'm trying, Arthur!” Dutch responded, still fighting to keep his composure. “I will find a way out of this mess, but I need you calm and I need you focused. For once in your life, Arthur, you have to trust me and not fight me!” With an angry shout he got off his horse and left the two younger man standing in front of the small bridge that lead to the old mansion. He needed to think, not someone to throwing a tantrum just for the sake of it. Arthur's outbursts and his bad mood were not helping and they only had only one day to come up with a something. Anything.

 

They needed a miracle. Arthur couldn't remember having seen Dutch like this before. Agitated, desperate and powerless to protect the people he loved. No firepower and no money would convince Bronte to let Jack go without getting John in return. The man had them exactly where he wanted them to be, powerless and depending on his mercy, and he had already seen the impact these circumstances had on Dutch.

 

“You OK?” Arthur asked the younger, clearly worried by the silence. This wasn't like John. He ranted, he cursed, he shouted, but he never stayed silent. It felt too much like the younger had already give up.

 

“I need to speak with Abigail.” It seemed like John hadn't even heard Arthur. He had a haunted look in his eyes and Arthur didn't know what else he would be able to see in the dark orbs if the dim light of the nearest lamp would allow it. Without saying another word John followed Dutch who had already entered the old and decaying manor house.

 

With a heavy sigh Arthur lead their horses towards Kieran before following the dark haired man up the stairs of Shady Belle. It didn't matter if Dutch came up with a plan or a solution how to get Jack back in the next 24 hours, one thing was for sure: Arthur wouldn't let John go.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Warm, humid air that smelled like stale water and rotting earth met his face when Arthur stepped out to the main balcony of Shady Belle. Dutch was leaning against the handrail, ignoring him when he took the spot next to him. The tense shoulders and the deep lines around his eyes and between his brows were a telltale sign that a solution for their latest problem that came in the form of Angelo Bronte was not in sight.

 

Arthur lightened a cigarette he had rolled earlier and held it out to the other man. It was a small peace offering, one that Dutch accepted with a sigh and a grunt that didn’t even come close to ‘thank you’. He rarely smoked cigarettes. They reminded him too much of his youth, Dutch had explained one time. Arthur had never bothered to ask what exactly he meant by that.

 

The two men stood in silence, smoking and watching as Lenny took over the guard watch from a yawning Bill. It was a calm and quiet night and apart from Reverend Swanson who mourned his lost soul a bit too loudly and Uncle who mourned the emptiness of the bottle in his hands in equal measure nobody else was still awake.

 

Arthur didn’t bother to say anything as he finally looked at Dutch, they both knew why he was here even though Dutch had made it clear that he wouldn’t tolerate any kind of disturbance from anybody, including Arthur.

 

"We don't have enough time,” Dutch murmured, almost as if he was talking to himself, answering the question the dark blond man had not yet dared to ask. Arthur knew it was true. They had to move. The Pinkertons were hot on their heels and it was only a matter of days until the agents would find them here at the border of the Lemoyne wetlands. If they didn't want to lose everything including their lives they would have to move to a new hiding spot soon.

 

They couldn't even stay in Saint Denis for long if they didn't want to risk being recognized by a police officer, bounty hunter or Pinkerton agent. The risk was still too high, especially since Leviticus Cornwall was actively financing their downfall after their direct and indirect encounters with the ruthless businessman.

 

Arthur's face turned into a grimace of disgust when inhaled the smoke of his cigarette and he looked and the smoldering butt with a displeased frown. Ever since they had moved their camp to Shady Belle the clammy and murky air of the swamps left the tobacco moist and stale. It also left an unpleasant, almost iron-like taste in his mouth whenever he smoked and it made him look forward to the day when they would leave this swampy marshland once and for all.

 

The dark blond outlaw stifled a small cough behind his hand before he spoke: “We still have to do something. You haven't seen them, Dutch. You haven't seen them in that cellar, shackled to the wall.”

 

"I know, son. And we will not let that happen to John, I promise you that,” Dutch put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder almost absentmindedly, still looking out into the darkness of the night and seemingly lost to his thoughts again.

 

The reply had Arthur grind his teeth in frustration. The problem was that Dutch didn't know what he had seen. He didn’t understand!

 

Even though he had mentioned it to Dutch and Hosea what kind of condemnable business was going on in Saint Denis he had told nobody what exactly he had seen when he had entered the musty, dark cellar of the sleazy looking French guy that called himself a dealer in antiques.

 

The unsettling feeling of disgust and pity had lingered with him much too long after finding the two men that had looked at him with distrust and fear in their eyes, their faces thin and haggard looking and their clothes and skin caked with grime and filth. He couldn't and wouldn't let the same happen to John.

 

"Dutch, do we have a plan? Can we get Jack back without cutting John loose?" Arthur finally asked, looking at his friend and mentor and hoping against hope that the older man would have a trick up his sleeve that would make it possible to safe both Jack and his father.

 

Dutch closed his eyes as he took another drag of his cigarette. Both men knew the answer already. They didn't have enough time, men or money to do anything right now. One single day was just not enough time and with Jack as his hostage Bronte was practically untouchable.

 

With a frustrated sigh Arthur tossed his own half-smoked cigarette over the balustrade. This wasn't good enough. There had to be a way to rescue Jack, to stop Bronte and to put an end to the whole underground slave trading business in this dump of a city.

 

"I'm going to ride to Saint Denis in the morning and see what I can find out," Arthur said. He was more than ready to leave the older man to his thoughts. Dutch only nodded in reply, massaging his aching temples and taking a long drag of the cigarette that was clamped between his teeth.

 

When Arthur had closed the balcony door behind him he took a deep breath. With every passing minute he got more and more desperate to do something. Sitting around and waiting for one of Dutch's more or less brilliant plans wasn't going to solve anything, they had to act now or risk losing track of John the moment he stepped into Bronte's house.

 

The monk, Brother Dorkins, who had asked him for help with the two slaves that were held in the cellar of the shady fence had mentioned that Saint Denis was nothing more than a staging post for shipping slaves out to the islands. He was their only chance to find out more about the organizers and men behind the scenes. Even if it was nothing more than a rumor Arthur was willing to bet his horse that Brother Dorkins would at least be able to point him into the right direction.

 

Arthur decided to try to rest for a couple of hours even though he knew that sleep would not come. Shady Belle was mostly silent at this time of the night apart from the typical noises of the insects and night birds and the occasional ominous cries that were coming from deep within the swamps.

 

It was this silence and the general feeling of peacefulness that made the harsh sound of John and Abigail arguing so very hard to ignore. Arthur lingered on the upper landing of the stairs, trying unsuccessfully not to listen to the words the couple exchanged. It wasn't the right thing to do and he knew he shouldn't eavesdrop on their conversation, but the massive hole in the wall that separated the room from the rest of the upper floor made it impossible not to hear every word and Abigail's choked sobs.

 

"Why haven't you brought him back? Where's Jack?" Abigail's voice sounded hoarse and tight, trembling with emotions and unshed tears, but there was also anger and the bitter hint of accusation there. She had spent the last days waiting, fearing the worst and hoping for the best. It wasn't surprising that her nerves were at breaking point.

 

"He's alright, Abigail. That Italian guy, Bronte, he said Jack's fine." John tried to assure her and put her mind at least a bit at ease even though he knew better than anybody else that trusting Bronte would be foolish and naive at best.

 

Arthur could hear the sharp sound of heels on the old parquet floor and saw the movement of shadows on the wall opposite of the big hole, Abigail was pacing inside the small room, her hands clasping her skirt in nervous agitation.

 

He understood her worries just too well. There was no guaranty that Jack was alright. All they had was Bronte's word and the man was unpredictable in his cruelty and arrogance. They couldn't be sure that he would not harm Jack sooner or later and he didn't even want to imagine the fear and worry that Abigail was feeling right now. Arthur knew all too well that the pain of loosing a child was unimaginable and he hoped that the young woman would never need to experience it.

 

Another shadow joined Abigail's, it was John's. Arthur saw his the shadowy silhouette raise his hands, intending to put them on her shoulders, instead John dropped them again, not daring to touch her.

 

“Bronte, he offered us a deal.” John voice broke with the last word and he covered it with a dty cough. The reality of what had happened and what the consequences of Bronte's offer would be was slowly sinking in and it scared him more than he was willing to admit. “That guy, Bronte, said he would let Jack go. In exchange for … “ Arthur could hear another nervous cough. “He wants me to take Jack's place. I think he's planning to bring me somewhere.” There was a pause. John was waiting for any kind of reaction from the woman that called herself his wife and Abigail was apparently unable to reply to what she had just heard.

 

Arthur didn't doubt that she knew or at least guessed what the dark haired man was implying, even though John didn't bother to explain what 'bringing somewhere' really meant. There were not many things someone like Bronte could want with an almost uneducated and unrefined outlaw like John.

 

Abigail's reply was almost too soft for Arthur to hear: “He's my son, please!” She was close to begging now, not able or maybe not even willing to acknowledge the threat that was looming over John's head. It was like she already guessed that she would not be able to keep both her son and the man she loved from harm and that she would need to make a decision.

 

The shadows on the wall opposite of the big hole were moving again and Arthur could see the John taking a couple of steps away from Abigail. There was a heaviness in his steps, the soles of his shoes dragging along withered floor, like he had to fight to make his legs work properly.

 

“He's my son too! But this is ... it's a lot to ask.” He sounded unsure and almost forlorn. There was no doubt that he didn't want to refuse Abigail, but something was holding him back. Something he was waiting for.

 

"Please, John. For once in your life do the right thing!" Abigail kept pleading with him, her voice desperate, pushing John towards a decision he was not yet ready to make. She wanted closure for herself as well as her son. She wanted this to be over.

 

"You really want me to ... " John didn't finish the sentence. Arthur didn't even have to see his face to know what John was feeling. He had heard this flat and brittle tone in John's voice only a couple of times before. The last time had been when Dutch had slapped him like an insolent child for something he'd said shortly after Annabelle's death. It had taken Hosea and him hours to talk him out of riding to Colm O'Driscoll's camp to kill the man.

 

“If you ask me to choose between Jack and you,” Abigail began and Arthur knew that he didn't imagine the angry and cool timbre in her voice. “You know the answer already. John, please, you owe this to both me and your son after leaving us.”

 

And there it was. The unwritten obligation and lifelong debt that she was waving over his head. It was the one reason that she knew would push John to say yes and Arthur couldn't prevent the feeling of resentment that was growing inside of him. He despised her, not even for what she had done, but for the callous way she was pursuing her interest, even if it meant that they could save Jack from the Italian.

 

Abigail was a fine woman. Headstrong, brave, clever, and she wasn't going to let anything or anybody get between her and her child. Her passion and her caring nature were qualities that Arthur had always respected and admired, but there was also another side to her that made her opportunistic, egoistic and selfish, never accepting no for an answer. When she wanted something she didn't give up until she had it, regardless of the price other people needed to pay for it. Her requests were often demands accompanied by a 'please' and this time she demanded that John should give up his life, his freedom and everything he knew.

 

“Okay.” This single word was John's only reply, still with that hollow sounding voice. He was giving in to her demands and Arthur felt that urgent need to something, anything, that would make him take back this one word. There was no reply from Abigail. It seemed there was nothing else either of them had to say.

 

John hesitated for a moment before he decided that there was no reason to remain inside this room any longer. The heavy, dragging footsteps and the moving shadow on the wall told Arthur that the young outlaw was walking towards the door. He remained where he was; it didn't matter anymore if the dark haired man knew he was listening in on him and Abigail, because he knew what John's decision meant. It meant John would leave. 

 

When the young gunslinger exited the room, he didn't spot the older man immediately and for a moment Arthur thought he would pass him without even noticing him standing in the shadows. John didn't stop when he passed the man that was standing in the shadows, his gaze lowered as he pushed past him without saying a word.

 

It was impossible for the older gunslinger to ignore the sudden painful twinge in his chest and for a second he just stood there, watching John walk slowly down the half-rotten and creaking staircase. It wasn't supposed to be like this, he thought, trying to ignore the feeling of helplessness, shame and furious guilt that had gripped his heart in a tight fist.

 

Arthur opened his mouth, only to realize that he didn't know what to say. His only instinct was to stop John from leaving. His heart was beating fast in his chest when he followed the younger man down the stairs, the heavy steps of their boots was the only sound audible inside the old manor house.

 

It was more of a reflex when Arthur grabbed the arm of the younger man when he reached the bottom landing of the stairs. John almost lost his balance when he was pulled backward by the dark blond gunslinger and he grabbed the handrail as he tried to shake off the hand that had his arm in a tight grip.

 

“What the hell, Morgan. Let go!” There was no real fire in his voice, everything seemed to be drowned in the exhausted bitterness that Arthur had already heard earlier.

 

The older man could only shake his head, his lips pressed into a tight line. “I'm not going to let you throw your life away!” He growled, dark, angry and determined. They still had some time left to think of something. It was too soon to give up on finding a way out of this mess.

 

“It's not your choice! It's mine!” John's answered, anger coloring his voice more clearly now. He didn't have the patience for this, not after Abigail had made it clear that she expected him to bring Jack back to her, regardless of the price he would have to pay. “I know you'd do the same if this was your son and your choice.” His hands clenched into fists and Arthur could feel the muscles of his arm tense and jump.

 

Arthur didn't reply. He knew John was right. He also knew he wouldn't let a foolish brute like himself stop him either, but this was different. This was John. He couldn't just stand by, watch and do nothing. The panicked feeling that had his insides in a tight grip got only stronger when John tried to wrench his arm free.

 

It was a foolish and selfish act of desperation when he grabbed the younger by his shoulders and pulled John back. He could hear the pained gasp and the wooden panels groan and splinter when the dark haired gunslinger back collided with the wall. With more force than necessary he pushed John against the wall when he tried to break free from the hold he had on him.

 

“Listen, you idiot, just … listen to me.” John's fist was already half-raised, ready to punch the older man when Arthur's words made him hesitate. “Remember what Hosea said when he put you in front of me the day after he and Dutch saved you from being lynched by that mob?” The dark blond cowboy asked.

 

John shook his head. If there was one thing from his past that he didn't want to remember it was the day he had almost been hanged by a group of men that had liked it a bit too much to have some sort of power over a defenseless child.

 

“He made me swear that I'll have an eye on you and that I make sure you stay out of trouble,” Arthur continued, releasing the hold he had on the younger who, to his surprise, didn't push him away. “You were such a skinny little runt then. Didn't think you could ever shoot a gun properly or ride a horse.”

 

With a defeated sigh John pressed his forehead against Arthur's shoulder. This was not the time to wallow in memories. Especially since he barely remembered his first days with Dutch, Hosea and the man that was standing now in front of him. The stinging burn marks that the rope had left on his neck and the echoing shouts of the men that had tried to hang him had been too fresh on his mind to understand what Dutch had offered him that day and what being a member of a gang really meant. Not once had he asked himself what his life would have been like if he had refused that offer.

 

Arthur hesitated for a moment, his hands hovering next to John's head before he threaded gentle fingers through the tangled and dirty locks of dark brown hair. “Listen, John, you already made me break that promise once when you left us for a year. I'm not gonna let it happen again.”

 

They stood like this for a while. Arthur's hands buried in his dirty mop of hair and John leaning against his shoulder, feeling restless and tired and even though he would never admit it he enjoyed the warmth and comfortable closeness of the dark blond gunslinger that had been by his side for more than half his life more than he probably should. This was what home meant to him, regardless of where they ended up, if they had any money or a roof over their head. He could barely remember the time before Dutch, Hosea and Arthur had made him into the man he now was, when they hadn't been a family.

 

 

The smell of leather, gunpowder, sweat and Arthur was rich in his nose when he pressed his face to the neck of the older man. He just couldn't imagine what life would be without the gang and it didn't matter to him anymore that Dutch had maneuvered them in a situation that would probably end in blood. It didn't matter that Hosea's health would sooner or later become a liability if they had to keep on running like from the law. And it didn't matter if everything he and Arthur had now were looks of contempt and disappointment and constant fighting and bickering as long as he would not lose them.

 

John swallowed around the tightness in his throat and chest. He needed to leave or he would probably find a reason - any reason - not to go.

 

Arthur was staring at the old cracking paint above the wall panels with unseeing eyes when he felt and hear John murmur against his neck: “Let go, Arthur.” He still didn't want to let go. It would be so easy to keep John here, away from Bronte and and everything that threatened to destroy his family.  He knew it was selfish and way too shortsighted for a man of his age and experience to think have these kind of thoughts, but he couldn't help it.

 

“You have to trust me with this.” John put his hands on the older man's chest and pushed him gently away. “You know I'm good at running away. Let me prove it,” he added in a low voice, a small smile playing on his lips that had Arthur shake his head.

 

“It's not you I don't trust, it's Bronte. You d—” He wasn't able to finish the sentence.

 

“John!” Hosea's voice suddenly cut through the silence as the old conman barreled through the the front door, a grim expression on his face. Arthur didn't bother to ask how he could possibly know about Bronte and John, but it was obvious that he did.

 

When Arthur turned around to face Hosea John had already ducked out from under his arm. Hosea reached them only seconds later. There was no trace of tiredness on his face as he looked at the two men, scrutinized both Arthur and John and for a moment the dark blond outlaw wasn't sure what to expect when he saw Hosea's displeased frown and the tight lines around his mouth.

 

“What're you planning to do?” Hosea addressed John briskly, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

 

There was a moment of hesitation before John answered: “I'll ride back to Saint Denis to get Jack. I'll stay there, Jack'll come home. That's pretty much it.”

 

Hosea studied him with a hard and steely expression, scrutinizing the young outlaw. Arthur and John both knew that this answer was far from what the older man wanted to hear. This was stupidity. What Hosea expected was something clever and neat, something that would solve their problems and teach Bronte to never challenge or threaten them again.

 

“Bronte said he'll release Jack, when I ...” John tried to explain, only to fall silent as his mind refused to provide the right words again. It was like something in him was stopping him from using the word 'slavery'.

 

“When you agree to be sold like a high priced cow. I already know, Dutch told me. We are not going to let this happen.” Hosea finished the sentence for him, his voice sharp and angry and his patience running thin.

 

The wrinkles around Hosea's mouth and on his forehead became even more prominent when John made an irritated and annoyed sound. There was a sudden tension between him and the older man that was uncommon. John and Hosea almost never fought, they seldom argued about anything and Arthur felt a weight drop off his shoulders when he realized what Hosea was trying to do. He didn't want to see John go either, at least not like that, not without a foolproof plan in place and a real chance to get John back.

 

“What do you have in mind?” Arthur asked, wanting to ease the tension between them and hoping against hope that he would hear the words that Dutch was usually so fond of, that there was a real plan.

 

John threw up his hands in protest before Hosea had even opened his mouth. The frustration the dark haired outlaw was feeling was now visible on his face.

 

“There is no other way! It's either me or Jack. Do you want to see Jack being sold to some plantation or some bastard that does God knows what with him?” Even though the young was usually reluctant to share what was really on his mind he was never good at keeping his emotions in check. “You're not stopping me from getting my son back!” John growled, his chin prominent as he clenched his jaw.

 

The old conman shook his head and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Of course not! I'm not saying we will stop the exchange. I'm just saying we will not stand by and watch while you are treated and sold like a mere object.” He took a deep breath, his eyes flickering to Arthur's for a second before he continued to speak: “I already put Trelawny on it. If somebody can find any information about something like a slave trading business in Saint Denis it's him. If there is an auction we'll be there as well.”

 

When he was sure that John would not object to the plan turned to Arthur. “I want you to scout the harbor tomorrow. Somebody must’ve seen something. A ship or a longboat transporting people that didn't look like normal passengers or sailors.”

 

Arthur nodded, thankful that Hosea gave him a chance to do something other than just sitting around or wandering through the city aimlessly and without any idea what to do.

 

“John, I'm coming with you to Saint Denis. And no buts!" Hosea said sternly, stopping John before the younger could even open his mouth and making it clear that he would not willing to engage in any kind of discussion. “We'll give Bronte what he wants, but somebody needs to bring Jack home and I don't think they will let you keep your horse.”

 

The dark haired oulaw sighed and nodded reluctantly. Even though the old conman meant well, it felt somehow wrong allow the others to be dragged into this mess, it felt like he had already lost the option to decide for himself. Maybe this was actually true. With his life lying in the hands of a bastard like Bronte and with his future depending on the creativity and cleverness of men like Hosea and Trelawny there was not much left for him to decide.

 

And then there was Arthur. They hadn't been exactly close since Jack was born, hell, they hadn't even been on speaking terms for the first six months after he had returned from his year of absence and yet he never doubted that Arthur would be by his side when he needed him. It was funny, John realized, that he didn't mind relying on him. He didn't mind the harsh words and dismissive glances he usually received from the older man these days, as long as he was just there.

 

“Let's get this over with.” Even if he wasn't able to decide his fate anymore he would at least decide when he would give up his freedom. John's eyes lingered on Arthur who still looked grim, tired and anxious, but who had a small glimmer of hope in his blue eyes that made John's heart beat just a bit faster, because he couldn't help but share this hope and cling to the chance that he would see him and Hosea and Dutch again.

 

Neither Arthur nor Hosea stopped him this time when he pushed past them. There was only the first dim glimpse of light on the horizon when the two older men followed John as he left the manor house and went to Old Boy. He petted the horse affectionately before he retrieved his own mostly empty journal and his worn hat that had been stored in one of the saddlebags.

 

John knew what he had to do. He had to make sure that there was something he could come back to, something that would be there for him when Abigail and Jack would have already left and when Dutch would have made his gang – his family – move to another place.

 

“Keep that safe for me.” The dark haired outlaw pressed the two objects against Arthur's chest, waiting until he felt strong hands close around the items. He did not dare to look into the eyes of the older man as he spoke: “And keep an eye out for a letter for dear old Tacitus Kilgore if you can't find a way to stop what Bronte's planning to do. I'll write as soon as I can get away.”

 

John didn't wait for a reply. The smile he gave Hosea when he mounted Old Boy felt forced and stiff and he still couldn't find the needed courage in him to look at Arthur who was still standing there, silently watching with John's hat and journal cradled in his hands.

 

Hosea gave him a nod, a grave look on his face as steered his horse towards the small trail that led away from the old manor house and followed John to Saint Denis.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> discontinued, due to lack of interest


End file.
